


Headway

by Seefin



Series: Headway [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, HP: EWE, M/M, Multi, Post-Deathly Hallows, good luck with this one guys, literally the two most important things ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 06:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11480208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seefin/pseuds/Seefin
Summary: “It’s calledcourting,”Draco spat suddenly, livid and red in the face. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand a single thing about it, actually Potter, since it’sformal,and there arerules,and neither of those are concepts you’d know anything about even if they took on human form and kicked you right in the fucking dick.”





	Headway

1.

He’d been dreaming about Crookshanks, yowling angrily as he tried to get at a scrabbling rat trapped under their new side-table in the living room. Hermione had been there too, in her pyjamas, trying to coax him away with a tiny, slippery-silver fish that wouldn’t keep still in her hand. Eventually Crookshanks gave up on the rat and started meowing happily on Hermione’s lap, nuzzling his scruffy head into the crook of her arm as the fish flip-flopped this way and that, abandoned on the carpet.

Ron heard it as he woke up, it had been bleeding into his dream; Crookshanks in the hallway, purring and meowing and shifting around on the floor as though he was trying to put his paws underneath their bedroom door. He opened his eyes muzzily, still halfway to picking the fish up, and stared at the glowing face of the alarm clock on the bedside table. He watched, in mild confusion, as the first digit blinked slowly over from three to four. He dropped his head back onto his pillow and listened to Harry try to be quiet as he whispered to Crookshanks and probably petted his stomach. That cat barely let Ron near him, wouldn’t even eat his food if Ron had been the one to put it out. He was probably going to hold that grudge for the rest of his life, which Ron actually did have a bit of reluctant respect for.

After a little while the door started to inch open, as Harry presumably got tired of pandering to the cat’s wishes. A wedge of bright yellow light from the hallway flooded over the wooden floor, then onto the rug beside their bed. “Hi,” Harry whispered guiltily, freezing when he caught sight of Ron watching him. “I was trying to be quiet,” he explained, the words blurred at the edges, then smiled, happy even after getting caught halfway through a break-in. The sight made Ron’s heart hurt, always did.

He slipped in through the crack in the door, fending Crookshanks off with his feet, lit up from behind with his hair falling over his cheek. “Hi,” Ron managed, his voice unfamiliar, cracking through the early hour, “don’t wake Hermione.”

Harry nodded, midway through taking his trousers off, and then promptly stumbled three steps to the side, falling hard against the corner of the bed. Ron sat up, but Hermione was still sleeping deeply beside him, curled up with her back pressed tight against the wall.

“Are you pissed?” he asked, somewhere near laughing, peering over the edge of the mattress to see Harry pulling his socks off with quiet determination, a serious little crease between his eyebrows.

“I’m pissed,” Harry agreed, flinging a sock in the direction of the laundry basket and missing by a good two metres.

“No Neville?” Ron asked mildly, moving closer to Hermione so that Harry could climb into bed, heavy and slow in only his broomstick boxers.

“Oh, I _saw_ Neville,” Harry told him, hushed, and splayed his fingers across Ron’s jaw, clumsy in the dark. Ron’s heart kicked, the way it always did when Harry touched him or looked at him or even entered a fucking room.

“You did,” Ron said, smiling, as Harry slid his hand down onto his neck, his thumb pressed into the dip behind Ron’s ear.

“At the start of the night,” Harry said, his ability to speak already on a sharp decline. “And then he had to go back to Hogwarts for marking but I stayed out.”

“You did?” Ron said again, “where did you go?”

“Hm,” Harry replied distractedly, “you’re not wearing a t-shirt.”

“No,” Ron agreed, Harry’s palm burning against his bare waist, “neither are you.” He’d always liked talking to Harry when he was drunk, he seemed so much more delighted at the world than he did when he was sober. He forgot who he was for a little while.

“Convenient,” Harry said, and kissed him on the chin. “Shut up,” he continued, before Ron could even start laughing, and crowded on top of him, “it’s dark.”

Ron loved the weight of him. It almost made him forget about how slight Harry used to be, a slip of a thing, ghostly and insubstantial. “Yeah yeah,” he replied, grinning, “want to try that again?”

“I should,” Harry said, whispering again, “shouldn’t I,” and then did, more successfully this time around. He kissed Ron’s lips, a few times, gently, and then opened his mouth and licked inside.

“You taste terrible,” Ron said, pulling back after a minute or two, gasping, but truthfully he didn’t even mind it. Harry tasted bad in the same way whizbees tasted bad, bad _for you,_ like lime and sweet sherbet and questionable chemicals. Harry kissed him again.

“It’s the tequila,” he said, then put his tongue against Ron’s bottom lip. “I missed you and Hermione,” he confessed, softly.

“Who were you with?” Ron asked.

“Oh,” Harry said, sitting up abruptly, his thigh over Ron’s. He sounded as though the question was unexpected. “I think--” he started, and then cut off sharply.

“You don’t know them? _”_ Ron asked, touching the soft skin on the inside of Harry’s knee. “Or what?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said immediately, lying.

“Where did you go?” Ron asked, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s pants. They were a little loose, the elastic worn down in the wash. Harry never bought new clothes if he could help it, and usually waited until something was absolutely falling-apart-unusable before replacing it. Ron was the same though, the habit had stuck with him since he was a kid.

“A bar,” Harry said, solemn, and then paused. “To someone’s house. Both, I guess.”

“Harry,” Ron said, smiling, leaning his head against Harry’s arm, “did you get with someone tonight?”

Harry was silent for a moment then laughed out of nowhere, a little too loud and a little too strained to be properly real. “Yeah,” he said, “but I missed you guys.” He said that occasionally, still, and it made Ron feel guilty about ever-- about ever making Harry feel like he didn’t care about them enough.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Ron offered, “just-- I’ll shut up if you want me to shut up.”

“I don’t know if I want to tell you,” Harry said uncertainly, out of the gloom, and stroked one hand through Ron’s hair. He’d started to sober up a little, at the conversation.

“Okay,” Ron said, “then that’s fine.” And he was telling the truth, mostly, except that it made him nervous sometimes when Harry had secrets. That wasn’t _Harry’s_ problem though.

“I should,” Harry said, after a second, “but also I shouldn’t.”

“Okay,” Ron said, trying to make his voice sound soothing but-- not really doing it very well. “It’s okay, Harry, seriously.”

“I think it’s complicated,” Harry told him, quiet and sad and bewildered. Ron suddenly wanted more than anything to get it out of him, to know exactly what could make Harry sound like that.

“Why’s it complicated?” Ron asked, holding tight onto Harry’s side. He didn’t say anything for a long time, long enough that Ron started to think maybe he wasn’t going to answer.

“He said-- he said we’re not compatible,” Harry responded. Then, after a second, he repeated it. _Compatible._ He said it like it didn’t taste good in his mouth, as though it was sharp against his tongue.

“Maybe--” Ron said, trying desperately to think, “maybe you just need to give it some time?” He’d give anything to know what to say, to know what Harry wanted to hear. Ron didn’t understand the ability some people had to grasp exactly what Harry was thinking or feeling just by the look on his face. Personally, he seemed to be barely capable of wild guesses, ones that only occasionally turned out to be right.

Harry laughed even though Ron hadn’t been trying to be funny, until he was breathless with it, his body shuddering as he tried to keep quiet. Hermione shifted in her sleep and made a little noise in the back of her throat but didn’t wake up. “No,” Harry said, after a deep, heaving breath, “he’s definitely right.”

“I’m sorry,” Ron said. He felt, deeply, that Harry should just always get what he wanted.

“Sorry about what?” Hermione asked, yawning in the darkness, “go back to sleep.” She threw her arm over Ron’s waist and huddled in against his side.

“Oh,” Harry said, pleased and a little bit surprised, “Hermione’s awake.”

“Oh,” Hermione laughed, her breath hot on the side of Ron’s neck. “Harry’s here.” He suppressed a shiver, it was embarrassing the way he got when they were on either side of him.

“Hi,” Harry said fondly, reaching for her over Ron’s chest, the hair on his arm brushing against Ron’s nipple. “I missed you.” Ron took a breath.

“What,” Hermione replied, yawning again and holding Harry’s hand against her bare shoulder, “while I was asleep?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, as though it was obvious. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You smell like alcohol,” she replied, “like disinfectant or something.”

“I was at a bar,” Harry explained fondly. He was falling asleep, Ron thought.

“Oh?” Hermione replied, but she was distracted, moving her hand onto Ron’s stomach, “are you tired?” she asked, in that way of hers.

Harry laughed and pressed his stomach up against Ron’s, until Hermione’s hand was trapped in between them. He kissed her mouth over Ron’s shoulder, too lazy to sit up properly. “Yes,” he said, with a tone of amusement, “are you tired? Ron are _you_ tired?”

“Guys,” Ron said, almost laughing, “we have to be up for work in less than three hours.” It wasn’t a real protest, and they’d definitely been into work after less sleep.

“Quickly then,” Hermione said, cupping the outside of his boxers, circling the heel of her hand until Ron was hard and struggling for breath, ready to do anything she said. Anything _either_ of them said.

“No it’s-- it’s okay,” Harry said, pushing his hand away when Ron tried to do the same to him, “I’m still drunk.” He grunted softly though when Ron started kissing his neck, quietly, like he hadn’t wanted anyone to hear him do it.

“Not that drunk,” Ron said slowly, shifting his hips against Hermione’s hand, leaking onto her wrist where his boxers were pushed down. “It must have been a big night with that guy.”

“A _big_ _night_ ,” Harry echoed deliberately, kissing Ron’s chest, his collarbones. “That’s a fucking understatement.”

“Yeah?” Hermione asked, flipping Ron over and straddling him, her knees tucked in against his waist. She’d got her underwear off at some point, while he’d been distracted, so he didn’t even have to do any work. She slid onto him hard, then paused and clutched at his wrist. “Did you fuck someone, Harry?” she said, shuddering vividly on top of him. He held still, overwhelmed by the heat and her weight and Harry’s lips against his cheek.

“I--” Harry said, and seemed unable to respond. “Yeah,” he said, “but I don’t want to--”

“Okay,” Hermione breathed, reaching for him, getting it immediately. “Harry, Harry, it’s okay,” she said, clenching down.

“I missed you,” Harry said desperately, kissing his way down her stomach, the ends of his hair only just brushing against Ron’s belly, “I always miss you.”

 _That’s not true,_ Ron wanted to say, even though it sounded like the truth when Harry said in that voice. They’d tried it, the three of them, and Harry had been the one who-- who hadn’t been able to cope with it. Ron had got used to the way it felt, mostly. Once, to Hermione, he’d said _it hardly even bothers me anymore,_ and she’d told him he sounded like he was recovering from an old wound.

Hermione’s breath caught, sticking in the back of her throat, when Harry put his tongue onto her. “I know,” she said, as though she _did_ somehow. As though she could understand what Harry was saying, see into him in a way Ron found himself unable to do. Harry didn't say anything else, his mouth otherwise occupied. She clenched again, hard, and leant way back with her hand on the mattress, rocking her hips forward until Ron could barely even think. “I know,” she repeated, an odd, unfamiliar refrain. “I know.”

2.

“Oh _Jesus,_ ” Harry said, when he kicked the door open and came in, an M&S bag in each hand. He dumped them on the floor beside his feet. “I’m not fucking _early_ am I?” he asked, dismayed, as he noticed the empty conference table and the blank whiteboard and the total absence of their co-workers.

“I told you the wrong time,” Hermione told him coolly, flipping through a classified file, the words wriggling all over the page when Ron glanced sideways at them.

“You’re a horrible person,” Harry said, “like, one of the worst people I know.” He tried to slam the door behind him but it just glided slowly shut as though it was moving through syrup. “Ughh,” Harry said, kicking it a couple of times with the toe of his boot.

“It’s fifteen minutes,” Ron said, yawning, “have a coffee or something. Sit down. Read a file for once.”

“I can’t believe this,” Harry said, poking gingerly at a gleaming pastry on the high table underneath the windows, “I’ve built my entire reputation on being late to meetings. People are going to think I’m a loser.” He pulled at the corner of the white tablecloth as though he’d never seen anything like it in his life.

“That’s why you’ve never been promoted,” Ron told him, “because you’re always sneaking into briefings halfway through and people think you don’t give a shit.” Hermione had been promoted three times in three years, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, and even Ron had had a partner for a year without being rotated over continuously like Harry.

“Who the fuck wants to be _promoted,_ ” Harry said, “and which of you wants more coffee? How the fuck does this work?” Harry was usually brilliant with Muggle machines, but he was thumping around and pressing buttons and opening little compartments on the coffee maker as though it was alien technology. He frowned, pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. He looked-- really fit, Ron thought, desperately, and wondered for a second if he could get away with rumpling Harry’s clothes a little more than they already were before the meeting started.

“Don’t bother with it,” Hermione sighed, “you’ll be there all day.” Ron loved them like this, it reminded him of living together, the way that they would fight but how none of the fights had ever been real.

They’d lived in Grimmauld Place after the last battle, crowding into the tiny double bed in the old master bedroom. He’d loved them like that, too, laughing when Dean and Seamus came over to play board games, talking together in low voices late at night before bed, the way they always, always knew where to find each other, wherever they were. Things had got so much better since then, and Ron didn’t know why it so often felt as though he’d lost something. It wasn’t as though he’d ever want to go back.

“Tea?” Harry asked her dubiously, “I can make you both tea, definitely.” He started rifling through the teabag selection.

“Just-- come and sit down,” Ron blurted. Harry stopped moving, turned to him already grinning.

“Yeah?” he asked, smiling, his eyes darting over to the door, “huh.”

“ _Huh_ what?” Ron asked, leaning back in his shit chair and parting his knees. Harry stalked over, detouring on the way to lift Hermione’s hair up from her neck and kiss her.

“ _Huh_ like I guess maybe this _isn’t_ the worst morning I’ve had in my entire life,” Harry laughed, as Hermione tipped her head back. Ron couldn’t take his eyes off them.

“What’s in the bags?” she asked, bringing her hand up to cup Harry’s jaw.

“Bags?” Harry asked, all muffled against her skin, just as the door opened and slammed into them, sending tins rolling across the floor. Harry straightened, brushing Hermione’s hair back into place sheepishly.

“Good grief,” Draco was saying as he stepped delicately over the green plastic, towards the table. Ron watched him murderously and closed his legs again. “Have I missed the meeting?”

Sometimes it was too fucking easy to hate Draco and his stupid, annoying habits. Always early, always neat, always insultingly put-together. He tugged on the cuff of his pinstripe shirt, his mouth turned down at the corner. “What the fuck is that?” he said, as Harry _accioed_ a packet of croissants from beside the tip of his pointy shoe.

“My weekly shop,” Harry said, re-packing the bags and tucking them under Ron’s chair. “Or have you _actually_ not seen a croissant before?”

“I didn’t realise they sold them in plastic,” Draco retorted, “I feel personally affronted by that. I feel like I’ve seen something deeply distasteful.”

Hermione snorted. “Stop being so rich.”

Draco looked at her. “Don’t even joke,” he said, seriously, then, “is that fucking coffee machine fixed yet?” He went over to fiddle with it, much in the same manner Harry had.

Ron reached over to touch the back of Harry’s wrist where it rested on his thigh; Harry twisted his hand over and clasped Ron’s fingers hard, his face flushing. Hermione kicked at their ankles under the table and smiled to herself when they both looked over, still flitting her eyes across the jumbled words in her document.

“I’ve got something for you,” she said, “the owl brought it to ours this morning, I think it thought you would be there.”

“What did the owl bring to ours?” Ron asked, sitting up. “Literally the first I’ve heard of this mate,” he said to Harry. Hermione reached into her bag and flicked a Ministry-purple envelope onto the table in front of where Harry was sitting, where it landed face down on the glass table. Ron groaned. “Fuck,” he said.

Harry grimaced. “I don’t even need to open it,” he tried, and Hermione laughed.

“The RSVP thing is inside,” she said, “so you do, actually.”

“I’ve told Robards I’m going, I’ve told Kingsley I’ll show my fucking face,” Harry said, halfway to moaning, “surely that’s fine.”

“Your name won’t be on the list,” Hermione said, and paused, “as absurd as that sounds, I know.”

“I’ll do it later,” Harry said, bending to shove it into one of his plastic bags.

“Who are you bringing?” Ron asked. They’d gone together the year before, the three of them, and nobody had noticed a single thing out of the ordinary because were always hanging around each other anyway. The _Prophet_ had called it _wholesome._ He thought about suggesting that again, but Harry hadn’t, and things were different now than they had been last year.

“Well, Ginny said no,” Harry said, then snorted. He looked over at Malfoy, briefly, almost by accident. “So I asked Luna.”

Hermione laughed. “Ginny’s _invited_ ,” she said, “didn’t she tell you? They’ve invited a bunch of players from the Harpies, since they were top of the league this year.”

“And since she’s a war hero,” Ron put in.

“She-- no,” Harry replied, frowning, “she didn’t tell me that. Anyway she isn’t going, so Luna and I are going together. To get pissed and dance to the deeply shit music they always have at these things.”

“Can’t get a date, Potter?” Draco asked, turning around from the window with a steaming, obnoxious cup of espresso. He sat down at the far end of the table and propped his elbow up on his armrest. Ron blinked. He had _such_ a punchable face. “That’s a little pathetic.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a second, just stared at him. Then he smiled slowly, weird and savage, in a way that made Ron nervous. “No,” he said, “apparently not. Who are you taking, Malfoy?”

“What makes you think I was even invited?” Draco asked.

“I think your mum will have been angling for an invitation for you for months,” Harry said, after a small pause, “because there’s going to be politicians there. That’s her sort of thing, isn’t it, _social climbing_?” He said that as though it was straight from a conversation they’d had with each other. Ron couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen them talking.

Draco’s face went hard. “I’m taking Astoria,” he said coldly, as if Harry or anyone there was supposed to know who that was.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, viciously, because apparently he did. “I saw the notice in the papers.” Hermione stared at him, even _she_ was shocked by-- by whatever the fuck this was. Harry and Draco got on, usually, or at least hadn’t fought in about four years, since training.

“Um,” Hermione said, looking between them, “which notice, Harry?”

“Pureblood thing,” Harry replied, wrinkling his nose, “apparently they notify the papers of every single fucking thing they do, since they’re wankers.” Ron snorted under his breath.

“Rich pureblood thing,” he said, and Harry squeezed his hand under the table. Ron’s heart lurched.

“ _Rich_ pureblood thing,” Harry corrected.

“It’s called _courting,_ ” Draco spat suddenly, livid and red in the face. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand a single thing about it, actually Potter, since it’s _formal,_ and there are _rules,_ and neither of those are concepts you’d know anything about even if they took on human form and kicked you right in the fucking dick _._ ”

Ron started to laugh. At least Draco never disappointed with the insults. “Well it sounds terrible,” Harry said decisively, “but each to their own, I guess.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. Hermione was looking down at her document, determinedly ignoring the situation, but Ron thought she was probably just trying to repress the urge she was having to whack Draco in the nose again. “You know,” Draco said, strained, “I think I’m just going to wait in the hallway. Not that this hasn’t been _such_ a pleasure.”

“Okay,” Harry said, leaning forward intently once the door had clicked shut. He was staring at it. “Not to be _that guy,_ but this never would have happened if I’d been allowed to arrive late.”

3.

The hall looked exactly the same as it had last year, down to the sheer, golden curtains he and Hermione were sort of hiding behind, out of view of the main part of the huge dance floor. Gold was pretty much the entire theme of the night, and had been ever since they’d started doing these fucking memorial dances. The colour of Gryffindor. The colour of the three of them, the glowing trio. The colour of the walls in the ballroom, the panels on the ceiling, the gilded frames on all the paintings and mirrors. Ron thought whoever had owned this house before the war must have been loaded. Once, it had been held at Malfoy Manor, years ago, before the Malfoys got their house back and started being actually invited to these kinds of events again.

Hermione drained the last of her champagne from the fancy stemless flute she was holding, a quick movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to her. They’d tried to make her wear gold tonight, too, but she’d gone for white. She looked a little like a bride, with her hair up like that, pearls all at the back and the nape of her neck. Earlier, at home, he’d told her she looked beautiful, that she was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen, but she’d just laughed. Ron found sometimes that people didn’t take him seriously if he told them exactly what he was thinking all the time.

A shining tray appeared out of the air beside them, laden with the tiny, disappointing finger foods that were always served on evenings like this one. They’d eaten before they’d come out but Hermione still took an entire fistful of mini quiches off the tray as she grabbed a new glass of champagne for them. It flicked away, probably off being re-stocked in the kitchens downstairs.

“What?” she asked, when he had to suppress a smile, “did you want some?”

“No, no,” he said, taking a sip of champagne and making a face. They’d made it so you had to go over to the bar to get anything stronger, all the way on the other side of the room. “Why didn’t we pick a hiding place closer to the bar?” he asked her.

“We aren’t hiding,” she argued, around a mouthful of food, “we’re resting.”

Nobody ever wanted to talk to him at balls, except people he already knew, or if they wanted an introduction to Hermione. So she was constantly more tired than he was, after all the niceties and the chit-chat and the talk about work and about her bright, bright future.

“We should have rested closer to the bar,” he said, venturing another mouthful of the champagne.

“Mm,” she said, “I really don’t know where they bought this stuff. It can’t have been from the house reserves.”

“How come?” he asked, shifting more firmly behind the pillar on their left, when he caught sight of the department head looking around as though she wanted someone to talk to. Daily, Ron cursed the fact that Hermione was so fucking nice to people, they always wanted to be _around her_ all the time.

“It tastes like the stuff we buy in Aldi,” Hermione said, laughing and pressing their shoulders together. She leant her head onto his shoulder, her jaw moving against his arm as she chewed loudly.

“So, cheap, then,” Ron said, and then there was a dip in conversation as Harry came into the room from a side entrance, late as usual. He hadn’t even let them announce him. “Harry’s here,” he said, and Hermione peered around him into the crowd.

“I can’t see, I’m too short,” she said, “and Harry’s _definitely_ too short, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’ll see if I can flag him down in a bit,” Ron said, “once he’s done talking to people.”

“He’ll definitely give away our spot,” Hermione said, yawning widely.

Ron watched him move through the crowd, only the top of his head was really visible, his dark forehead with the silvery scar. A crowd had formed around him and Luna. “I dunno,” he said, “I think it’s likely to take a while.”

Hermione snaked an arm around his waist. “You’re nice and tall,” she said, tipsy and sweet smelling and warm against his side. He put his chin on the top of her head. “Easy to spot in a crowd.” The crowd around Harry parted for a second and Ron saw him, his mouth serious as he shook someone’s hand. He was wearing a green suit, they’d picked it out together.

There was movement on the other side of the room, drawing Ron’s gaze. “Speaking of _easy to spot in a crowd,”_ he said, watching Draco walk over to the dance floor, his pointy nose turned up. There was a girl with him, pretty, with long, long hair and pale brown skin. Astoria. Ron couldn’t remember seeing her around school but she must have been there. They made an attractive couple, unfortunately, and it only got worse when they started dancing, whirling each other around so their robes spun out and their hair flew all over the place. It was just so fucking _typical._

“I can’t see,” Hermione said, “is it Luna?” Ron laughed

“It’s Draco,” he told her, “and Astoria, I guess.” Then the song was over, and people were trying to talk to Draco and he was ignoring them, or-- not _ignoring_ them so much as talking to people so briefly it looked as though he was. “They’re coming over,” he said, because they were headed straight for Hermione and Ron’s little alcove. Maybe they wanted to snog in it or something, but Draco didn’t seem like that type at all. Hermione moaned.

“God,” she said, “I’m going to have to talk to Gawain now, aren’t I?” Ron grimaced.

“Maybe we can get away with it for a bit longer,” he said absently, watching in vivid surprise as Draco stopped beside Harry, tall and pale in his old-fashioned robes. He bent over, said something low into Harry’s ear. Harry looked at him, nodded slowly, and then they were walking away from each other, Harry holding Luna’s hand tightly.

“Oh,” Hermione said. She’d been watching. “They’ve made up, then.”

“Looks like it,” Ron agreed, frowning. A tray bumped him on the shoulder a couple of times, trying very hard to give him a bottle of beer. He took it, for the sake of an easy life.

“Hello Gryffindors,” Draco said loudly, slipping in behind the pillar and clicking his fingers at the tray. It bobbed over, obediently. “Gin and tonic,” he told it sternly, “Astoria, what do you want?”

“Something really sweet,” she said, smirking. Draco stared at her for a second, his eyes dark. He turned back.

“Something really sweet,” he told the tray, “and don’t fuck around with cider, either. Something with vodka.” It made a weird, dipping motion, sort of like a little bow, and then fucked off.

“I had no idea you could do that,” Hermione said, bewildered, “I think you’ve just saved my life.”

“This is two thirds of the golden trio,” Draco said to Astoria, gesturing at them, “they go to a lot of parties, apparently.”

“Good ones?” she asked them, “or ones like this?”

Hermione laughed. “Ones like this, unfortunately,” she said. Astoria made a face. She was even more pretty close up. “At least we’ve sussed out the drinks situation though, for future reference.”

“Oh dear,” Draco said, his face solemn, “you weren’t letting it give you that awful excuse for champagne, were you?” His face fell when he saw the looks on their faces. “Good grief, it’s a wonder you can find the fucking coat check.” Astoria visibly bit back a laugh.

“Made up with Harry then?” Hermione asked, in Ron’s favourite, slightly-icy voice, the one she did when she was just at the start of becoming pissed off. Astoria snorted, and Draco levelled her with a look.

“Yes,” he said, “ _obviously_ ,” and didn’t volunteer any more information. Ron didn’t really know why it would be obvious.

“Will you excuse me?” Astoria said, “I’ve just seen my sister and I’m incredibly bored of talking about Potter. Send the drink over when it comes, darling.” She kissed Draco on the cheek, leaving the faintest little smear of glitter where her lips had been, right over his cheekbone.

Draco sagged against the pillar as she walked off, watching her go with a look on his face Ron hadn’t seen for ages. Abject fucking terror.

“She’s lovely,” Hermione said appreciatively. She meant it too, Ron thought.

Draco nodded. “She’s-- sure. Yes. Lovely is definitely one way of putting it.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Ron asked, taking a swig of beer. Hermione and Draco both watched him as he did it, stared at his throat.

“Um,” Draco said, still looking, and then laughed. “She’s great, very mean.”

“Mean,” Ron echoed. It didn’t exactly seem like-- like a _good_ quality to him, but maybe Slytherins liked that sort of thing.

“Why are you going out with her?” Hermione asked, which sounded like a very fair question until Draco got this look on his face like he’d just been stabbed in the throat.

“It’s courting,” he said stiffly, “and it’s arranged. Our mothers are friends.”

There was a pause, as everyone in the vicinity took that in. “Really?” Hermione asked weakly, before Ron could come up with anything, “I didn’t think that was still done.”

“What?” Draco asked, staring off into the crowd for Astoria, his face serious and odd-looking. “Among purebloods?”

“Yes, obviously,” Hermione said, exasperated. She always snapped a bit when somebody took too long to answer a question she’d asked. Draco didn’t even seem to notice.

“Yes. _Obviously,”_ he said sharply, turning to her and folding his arms. He went vaguely red. “When… when someone might have difficulty making a match themselves. Not that I’m saying Astoria wouldn’t--” he cut off, stared over Hermione’s shoulder at the garden outside, the sparkling fountains.

“Oh,” Hermione said, and laughed, “because of the Death Eater thing?” Ron jerked in shock, and even Draco huffed out a weird little sound of amusement.

“Are we allowed to laugh about that now?” he asked, “I wish I’d known, I could have prepared some anecdotes or something.”

Hermione shrugged. “It wouldn’t sound good if _you_ laughed about it.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “Do you like her?” Ron blurted, after a second. It wasn’t as though he really cared what Draco did in his spare time, he just-- he wanted to know; it sounded so clinical. Malfoy was like that though, everything was a transaction with him.

Draco opened his mouth, as if to answer, and then closed it again. He took a deep breath. “We’re--” he started, looking for words. He tilted his head a little to the left, the way he did sometimes when he was out of ideas. “Compatible,” he said finally, shrugging lazily with one shoulder against the pillar.

4.

It had been a long case. Four months, altogether, and she’d had to spend the last two weeks of that off in some undisclosed location in the middle of nowhere, not even allowed to send him letters. It hadn’t been in England though, she’d said there'd been mountains. But now she was back and it was over, and they’d arrested seven Death Eaters and then taken over the pub nearest headquarters so everyone could buy pints for Hermione and the rest of her team. Everyone kept clapping her on the back, everyone kept clapping _Ron_ on the back, as if he’d been responsible for the success by way of association. He supposed he'd done his part, at least she hadn’t had to stress about who was going to look after the cat while she’d been away. She was sitting over beside the bar, talking to Neville and smiling. Ron felt so fond of her, all the time, over everything about her. She was a wonder, her and Harry both.

He saw it when he was on his way over to her, weaving through tables so that he could talk to her and maybe kiss her neck if he thought nobody was looking. Harry sitting with Draco at an otherwise empty table, their backs pushed up against the heavy wooden panelling on the wall, whispering to one another with their heads close, bent down towards one another. Harry’s dark hair was falling into his face and he kept having to brush it away, nodding at whatever Draco was saying. They were smiling at each other, slowly, embarrassed about it. Draco had-- Draco had his sleeves rolled up. Ron swallowed, hard.

“Hermione,” he said urgently when he got to her, putting his hand onto Neville’s shoulder to steady himself, “can I see you for a second?”

She laughed with her cheeks flushing, and glanced over to Neville. “Alright,” she said; a secret, amused note in her voice he couldn’t quite work out, until she rose, slowly, and started walking to the toilets. Ron felt himself go scarlet.

“Right,” Neville said, and snorted, “I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

“Shut up,” Ron muttered, and followed her.

She turned to him at the doorway. “Harry?” she asked, offered, her head tipping to the side, languid with drink. He shook his head.

He’d barely even locked the door before she was on him, spinning him around and pushing him up against it. She kissed him, deeply, with her hands framing his face. “Hey,” he panted, after a minute, when she tried to undo his belt buckle. “One second.”

She stepped back, looked at him with her eyes blown black. “It was so shit without you,” she told him. He didn't even know how to answer that, he barely stands it when she goes to visit her parents without him, let alone chasing down Death Eaters for two weeks with no contact.

“It’s Draco,” he blurted out. He thought about all the times he’d seen them together, leaning towards each other, fighting and arguing and complaining.

“What’s wrong with him?” Hermione asked, caught off guard.

“The-- Draco’s the person Harry’s been seeing.”

“The person he keeps sneaking off to fuck,” Hermione said, raising her eyebrows, “you think that’s _Draco Malfoy?”_ It sounded ridiculous, when she said it like that.

“It sounds ridiculous,” he said, “I know it does, but you should have seen them just now-- and, they’re--” he tried to think of a way to describe how they were always looking at each other. How they’ve always looked at each other.

“He’s engaged,” Hermione said, low, “Draco’s fucking-- _engaged,_ Ron.”

Ron felt sick, right in the base of his stomach. “I suppose-- I mean, I think that must be why Harry’s been so upset about it, other than the fact that it’s Malfoy, obviously.”

“He’s _engaged,_ ” she said again, her brain stuck on it, “It’s been in the papers.”

“I know,” Ron said.

“Should we talk to Harry?” she asked. She seemed lost, she wanted a plan.

“He’s with Draco right now,” Ron said, “ _cuddling_ or whatever, over by the fake plants.”

Her jaw clenched. “Draco’s a fucking prat,” she bit out, “actually that’s not even a strong enough word for what he is. He’s a self-centred little baby. He’s never done anything worthwhile in his whole life.”

Ron went for her shoulder, but before he could touch her she stepped backwards and leant against the wall. Her head dropped. “He probably thinks he’s _good_ _enough_ for Harry, doesn’t he?”

Ron paused for a second. “I doubt he’d think that, actually. I don’t think anyone thinks that.” Hermione looked at him, her head tilted back, her mouth dark from where they’d been kissing, before. Ron shouldn’t have stopped that, probably.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” Ron asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied, “I can’t even think about it right now.” She put her hand over her stomach, breathed in hard a few times.

“I love you,” Ron said, out of nowhere.

She looked at him. “I don’t think there’s anything we _can_ do,” she said softly, “it’s-- it’s Harry.”

 _Exactly,_ Ron wanted to say, _it’s Harry._ Sometimes, Ron could barely even touch him. He’d forget how, for a while, start to overthink it. Touching Harry felt like sneaking behind the barriers in a museum and stealing something. Harry had _died,_ he’d come back to life to save them, he was-- he was more magic than the rest of them.

He’d been a little drunk, the night he’d told everyone about it, and tired from no sleep. They’d gathered around the fire in Grimmauld Place and he’d said it out loud for the first time. Afterwards, Seamus, with his eyes wide, had told Ron about miracles. The thought that Draco would take that for granted, that he would-- that he wouldn’t be careful, made Ron want to _die_.

“It’s fucking _Malfoy,_ ” Ron tried. He wanted her to understand.

“We’re not his fucking-- we can’t ban him from seeing someone,” Hermione said, defeated. Somewhere between school and now Hermione had come up with the idea that she pushed her nose into people’s business too often, and that not all problems were hers to solve. Mostly Ron thought it made her more relaxed, but right now he could have done with a seventeen year old Hermione, ready to tell everyone exactly what she thought they were doing wrong, ready to fight the entire world. He wanted her to fix it, but of course she couldn’t.

“Come here,” she said, and he did. She kissed him. “You’re the best person on the planet,” she told him, after some time, her chest heaving. Ron’s mouth felt fuzzy, numb from kissing her. He put his hands on her waist, pushing her t-shirt up so that he could press his palms against her warm, soft skin. She made a noise in her throat, when he went down to his knees.

Later on at the bar, after a few more drinks, he heard Draco’s stupid, nasally drawl right at his elbow. He watched Draco out of the corner of his eye as he gestured loudly at the bartender and tried to order a drink and generally made a massive idiot out of himself. Ron had no idea what Harry saw in the git, it wasn’t as though he was very attractive, and it wasn’t as though he made up for his pointy, pale little face with a winning personality. Ron briefly considered the idea that maybe Draco was just brilliant in bed, but that made him feel a bit uneasy so he had to stop thinking about it.

“Malfoy,” he said, his voice thick and angry.

Draco turned around in surprise. “You haven’t called me that in years,” he said, as though Ron was making a joke. Ron wanted to smear that smile right off his face. Draco stopped laughing, started to lower his brow in confusion.

“Harry,” Ron said desperately, unable to stop himself, and Draco twitched violently. “I don’t know how you could--”

“It’s a secret, actually,” Draco said, and didn’t look around to see who was watching even though it was clear he wanted to. “A very well-kept one, I might add.”

“You’re a lot less fucking subtle than you think you are,” Ron told him. The bartender leaned towards Draco, said something he didn’t quite catch.

“Right,” Draco said, handing some money over and looking faintly sick as he was given two pints of Guinness. Ron blinked at them. That was Harry’s drink. “Well maybe you could do us both a favour and not shout about it.” He didn’t mean-- he meant _himself and Harry. Us._

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ron asked him, he seriously wanted to know. “You’re fucking _engaged.”_

Draco looked at him, hard. “I suppose I am,” he said, and smiled, all teeth. Ron turned to where Harry was sitting, saw him watching them. Draco followed his gaze and the smile fell off his face, in increments.

“I’m going to hit you,” Ron said, surprised at himself. He wondered where the best place to do it would be, if he could persuade Draco to follow him outside, avoid a scene.

Draco blinked. “Harry’s an adult,” he pointed out.

“Unlike _you_ apparently,” Ron retorted.

Draco sneered at him, his nose wrinkling over the bridge. “Don’t be so fucking _stupid,_ Weasley, I know you’re better than that.”

“Merlin,” Ron said, “I really am going to fucking hit you mate.”

Draco stared at him coldly, almost bored. “I know you’re fucking him,” he said viciously, quietly. “You and him and Granger. He told me about it. It’s very sweet.” Ron swallowed hard, over the lump in his throat. He couldn’t say anything.

“So _he’s_ fucking his best friends, and I’m engaged. It’s working out great, thanks ever so much for your unwanted fucking concern,” Draco finished, bitterly, his mouth twisted downward at the corners. Ron looked at him. He had two spots of colour high on his cheekbones.

“You’re engaged,” Ron said.

“ _Yes,_ Ron,” Draco replied, angry and frustrated and looking as though he was right on the verge of bursting into tears, “how many times is that now? Are we all caught up? I’m engaged, due to be married, _betrothed,_ if you’re my mother, or the fucking _Prophet.”_

“Right,” Ron said slowly, as it dawned on him, “except somehow I can’t see it working out for you.” He got it now. Draco wasn’t immune either, he was the same as everyone else. He saw the same thing Ron did when he looked at Harry.

Draco glowered at him, spitting mad. “And how the _fuck_ would you know anything about it?” he asked, his voice low and terrible.

“I suppose I wouldn’t,” Ron admitted, glancing across at Harry, frowning and beautiful and watching them argue, not doing anything about it. Draco looked down at the pints he’d just bought, sweating in his hands and glistening with condensation. He swallowed hard.

“Fuck _off_ Weasley,” he choked out, his voice cracking, and started off towards their table, moving carefully.

“See you on Monday, Malfoy,” Ron said, calling after him through the crowd, but Draco didn’t hear.

Harry watched him as he approached, a smile blooming on his face as Draco sat down. He leant in, said something into Draco’s ear that made him flush even more. Draco closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> [talk @ me lads](http://seefin.tumblr.com/)


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